


Shadows in the Forest

by Truth



Category: Beauty and the Beast (Disney) (1991)
Genre: Death, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaston wasn't always tall, arrogant and handsome.  Why, when he was a child, he'd been very short!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows in the Forest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emiline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emiline/gifts).



Sometimes the fondest memories are those blurred by the passage of time. Gaston remembered his mother only vaguely. In his memory she was a mélange of soft voice, pleasant smells and a warm embrace, associated with comfort and safety.

"She was a good girl," his grandmother would tell him, when he would ask about her, looking up from her sewing. "A little too fond of having her own way, perhaps."

He asked a lot of questions about his mother when he was a child, sitting at the table in the large kitchen with a piece of warm bread and a chunk of cheese. "Why is my mama gone?"

"Brain fever," his grandmother told him, lips pursing with disapproval. "No good ever came of reading, especially for women. I did warn her, but she was never one for listening, your mama."

People didn't speak of Gaston's mother much, and he made a pest of himself, asking questions of his grandmother, who seemed the only one willing to enlighten him.

Sitting on the garden wall, watching her weed, he asked, "She was pretty, wasn't she?"

She had been lovely, he knew that, but he wanted to hear someone else say it. There was a large portrait that hung in his father's bedroom with her name on the frame. She had long, black hair that fell about in heavy curls and a wide, laughing smile. Gaston sometimes snuck into his father's room to sit on the end of the bed and stare at the picture, imagining that she was smiling just for him.

"Pretty enough." His grandmother didn't look up from her work, digging the intruding grasses and thistles away from the herbs planted along the wall. "She wasn't very strong, though. I told your father to marry a stout, healthy country girl, but he would hear nothing of it."

Gaston wanted to ask his father what his mother had been like, but it was difficult to find a time. His father spent a lot of time in travel and the rest out hunting in the wide forests outside the village. He owned most of the land for a good distance, at least to the north, and the rents from the villagers made sure that he could spend his time as he pleased.

Gaston's grandmother had something to say about that, too. "Denis always spent too much time away from home, and when she wasn't reading, your mother would be with him. A girl should be running her household and raising her children, not out riding across the countryside without so much as a hat!"

By the time he was seven, Gaston had overheard enough conversation between his grandmother and the cook to draw some conclusions of his own. His mother had been from Paris, a lovely girl who his father met while on a trip to visit a distant cousin. She had been to school, something nearly unheard of in their tiny village, and his grandmother had threatened strong hysterics when her son had come home with news of an engagement. Her disapproval had been cemented by Gaston's arrival, when it became evident from the difficulty of the birth that her new daughter-in-law would never bear another child – something else which his grandmother blamed on the girl's strange habits.

"All that riding and chasing through the woods - I should've had a mob of grandchildren by now, to support me in my old age. I tell you, Celeste, it should've been one of Marianne's daughters to marry my son."

Still, in Gaston's eyes, his mother remained beautiful and perfect. Her death became a sad tragedy that might've been averted, if only someone had been able to _explain_ to her that she had to be more careful, that she should leave all the thinking and the heavy work to someone else.

He had a lot of time to fantasize about dramatically rescuing his mother, mostly alone in his father's home. They had a maid and a cook who came up from the village, but his grandmother cared for the house herself, with occasional help from a hired man. Their father had a pair of huntsmen, but they spent their time with the dogs and the horses or down in the village and not at the house.

"Don't talk to the servants, Gaston. They have work to do and you should associate with more suitable people." She said that often, but Gaston had yet to figure out exactly what she meant by 'more suitable'. She rarely let him play with any of the village children, and he did not attend the tiny village school.

Eventually, on one of his father's rare visits home, Gaston crept down the stairs to try to gain a few minutes of attention. His father and his grandmother were still eating their dinner, and he sat on the bottom step, listening.

"… will not have him mix with the children of the villagers." His grandmother's voice held a note of sharpness that Gaston had never heard directed at himself. "If you insist on more than basic arithmetic and reading, he must have a tutor."

"I went to the village school," his father reminded her dryly. "It did me no harm."

There was a silence, and Gaston knew exactly the look his grandmother was wearing. His chest puffed a little bit with pride. His grandmother was never disappointed in _him_. He edged slightly closer, listening intently.

"Gaston deserves the best," his grandmother declared, with the air of one producing an irrefutable truth. "He is strong, handsome and very intelligent. He should –"

"He should spend less time behind his grandmother's skirts and more with children his own age. You keep exhorting him as a natural leader – and who has he ever led?" There came the scrape of a chair. "He needs more exposure to other people, other children. I"ll see to it in the morning."

"Denis!"

"That will be the end of it, mother." Footsteps sounded and Gaston withdrew hastily up the stairs, wondering what would happen next and feeling a great deal of excitement.

The autumn before Gaston's eighth birthday was filled with adventure, at least by the standards set to date. His father's first act was to take him down to the village school, where the schoolmaster stood indulgently to one side as candy was distributed to all the children, insuring that they would remember Gaston in a positive light.

A tutor was sent for, with the grim note by his grandmother that Gaston was not to spend _too_ much time at his books. "He's not to be too stressed by his lessons," she'd warned darkly. "That is how he lost his mother, after all."

After his own lessons, every day, he was sent to play in the village with the other children – those not busy helping with the harvest. His father made certain that he always had something to show off or to offer the village children. A new pony to offer rides on, another bag of candy, a new game taught by his tutor… always something different and more expensive than anything that might be afforded by the other children. His father also made certain that it was always something to be shared, although that had to be pointed out to Gaston by his tutor.

"Sharing prevents jealousy, Gaston, and you catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

Gaston gave him a look of exaggerated patience. "No one _wants_ to catch flies. They're horrible."

With a deep breath, his tutor continued. "You're wealthy, Gaston, or your family is. You don't have to go to school. You can do almost anything that you want, many of them things that the other children can only dream of. Most of them will spend their lives working, and many of them already do. If you share your advantages with them, make them enjoy your company, they will always be your friends."

"But I'm the best." Gaston was somewhat bewildered by his tutor's attitude. "Of course they'll be my friends."

"… of course."

Gaston's lessons became much lighter after that, focusing mostly on basic mathematics and a tiny bit of history and geography. Gaston was far more interested in the other children than he was in learning, and his attention was constantly on other things.

His father hadn't left on yet another trip and seemed in no hurry, for once, to leave. He spent a great deal of time in the village himself, talking to the men, frequenting the tiny shops and inspecting his horses and dogs.

As autumn came fully on, Gaston woke one morning to find their large, empty house filled to overflowing with other people, most of them men.

"It is a hunting party, Gaston. You'll come along, of course." His father had swung Gaston up onto his shoulders and moved into the crowd of men and horses already assembling, to make some introductions.

Everyone made a fuss over Gaston, talking about how strong and handsome a boy he was. By this time, Gaston simply took it in stride. It was true, of course. Everyone said so. The men slipped him candies or ruffled his hair, telling him how it was already obvious that he was a great hunter, and there was no reason in the world not to believe them.

The first morning was to be spent on birds, and the men set out on foot while Gaston's grandmother insisted he take his pony. "You're too young and small to risk yourself in this chill by tromping through the wet woods. Bundle up and stay on your pony."

Gaston was a good rider and well aware of it. Given the choice between showing off on his pony or trudging through the autumn cold on his own two feet, he chose to obey his grandmother's advice.

By the end of that first morning, Gaston was deeply unhappy. The gunshots and shouts of the men had spooked his pony more than once and, between struggling with the frightened animal and attempting not to be thrown had kept him fully occupied. He hadn't seen a single animal, much less been able to keep up with his father's group.

Exhausted, sore, disappointed and thoroughly sullen, he declared to his father that hunting was stupid and that he hated it and he would never do it again. Flushed with frustration and humiliation, twigs and mud in his hair and thorns still embedded in one arm, he was perilously close to tears.

Waving away the gathered hunters, most of whom were hiding their faces behind hats or their hands, Gaston's father sank to his heels. Looking at Gaston solemnly, he said, "There is nothing wrong with hunting, Gaston. I told you that you ought to walk with us, but you and your grandmother insisted on the pony. If you go about something the wrong way, of course it will be uncomfortable."

Gaston stared at him, eyes wide with shock. It had been a very long time since he had received even a gentle rebuke, and his father's words stung. "But-"

"No." His father lifted a hand to flick a curl of hair out of Gaston's eyes. "No buts. You will go with us again tomorrow morning, and you will walk with the rest of us. You will give this a fair trial and, if you still dislike it, you will not have to try it again."

"But-"

"No." This time, his father's voice was bare of sympathy. "I am at fault for leaving you with only your grandmother for supervision, and she has allowed you to have your way to the point of destruction. There are things in life which you must do even if you dislike them. We have guests to entertain and, as a host, you will help me to be certain they have a good time." Gentle hands plucked one of the thorns from Gaston's arm as his father continued, "Even if it is something we do not totally enjoy."

Gaston nodded sullenly, not truly listening to his father's words. If only _he'd_ had a gun. If only _he'd_ been allowed to lead instead of trailing behind, then they'd all have seen what a great hunter he was.

The next morning began wet and cold and Gaston was late to the hunter's pre-dawn breakfast. Unlike the previous day, no one fussed over him and the mood was subdued. By the time they set out, however, Gaston was again sure of his place in the world, as he had been asked to carry his father's powder and ammunition. He stayed by his father's side the entire morning, learning not to wince at the sudden gunshots around him, and rapidly learning how to be at the ready for anything his father might need.

By the time they arrived back at the house that afternoon, everyone was again slapping him on the back and ruffling his hair – no more praise than was certainly his due.

"Hunting is a man's sport," he declared to two of the village children, seconded to the cook to help with the washing up. Gaston himself sat at the edge of the kitchen table, eating an apple and watching the frantic work around him. "You have to have a keen eye and good judgment and fast reflexes."

His audience peppered him with breathless questions even as they ran to and fro, cleaning the birds and getting them ready to hang. He answered them all, graciously, and finally left the kitchen after another round of well-deserved compliments.

Everything was again as it should be.

Two more mornings of hunting came and went, and Gaston was allowed to shoot his father's gun. It was a strange, exhilarating feeling to watch the birds fall from the sky, to know that _he'd_ done that.

By the fifth day, Gaston was the first one awake, helping himself to breakfast before it was even fully on the table, and waiting impatiently for his father's guests to assemble.

They straggled in, laughing and clapping each other on the back. The usual fuss was made over Gaston, but when he moved to join his father, deep in conversation with his huntsmen, he found himself firmly escorted from the dining room and toward the stairs.

"We're splitting up and taking the dogs today, to hunt rabbit and badger. You need a little more height before we take you into the brush – it's far too easy for accidents to happen. You've been most of a week without any lessons. Make up your lost time with your tutor and I'll take you out again tomorrow."

"But Father, I –"

"Boys who argue will lose their hunting privileges for longer than just a day."

Gaston trudged upstairs, angry at his father, at his tutor and at the world. He spent the morning staring out the window, ignoring every word spoken by his tutor and thinking instead of how sorry his father would be for leaving him behind.

At lunch time, he refused to go downstairs to meet the returning hunters, staying instead in his room – waiting for his father to arrive and apologize. Lunch came and went, the sun sinking rapidly toward the horizon as the short, autumn afternoon turned to evening. Gaston's father and his companions had not yet returned, and the boy stayed by the window, telling himself that he wasn't _worried_.

There couldn't have been an accident. His father had been _wrong_.

It was full dark before the remaining hunters limped home, his father's body slung between two of them, and missing three of the dogs. Gaston refused to come out of his room, refused to believe that the bloody burden in the courtyard was really his father, refused to believe that a rogue boar had surprised his father and his hounds….

He had nightmares for months of a dark, starving creature in the forest. With huge, shining teeth, and dark tentacles, it lay in wait for the unwary, springing forth to tear them into _meat_.

His grandmother called the nightmares foolish, sent his tutor away, and finally sat him down in the kitchen for a stern talk.

"Gaston, you are the man of the house now, and a man has responsibilities. Until you are old enough to take command of your father's business, you must provide for your family in other ways."

She had his father's gun, a long, fresh groove in the stock the only remaining evidence of the event which still made him shrink from the woods. It lay on the table between them, and Gaston tried not to look at it. "We need meat for the larder, and I've engaged two of the village men to finish the lessons your father began." She leaned forward, fixing Gaston with a hard look as he opened his mouth to protest. "If you want to _be_ a man, Gaston, and a leader of men, you must act like one. A true man is not afraid of shadows in the forest. You will learn to be a hunter, a great hunter, and you will make me proud."

Something in her face, in her voice, caused Gaston's attempt at protest to die in his throat. He had seen disappointment and disapproval there, but never directed at himself. With a trembling hand, he reached for the gun.

She smacked his fingers. "You may have your father's gun when you bring me meat for our table. Until then, you will use one of Guillame's guns for learning."

Chastened, Gaston squared his shoulders. "I will make you proud."

Of course he would. He was the best.

Despite his best efforts, and a lingering tendency to shy at noises in the underbrush, Gaston's nightmares took a very long time to fade. Dark things lurking in the forest gave way to dreams of triumphant hunts. Blood and the broken body of his father slipped eventually to memories of his father's praise.

As the years passed, Gaston became a horseman, a huntsman, and the most popular young man in the village. Why not? He was invariably generous to those less fortunate, although that seemed to include almost everyone. He always shared the fruits of a successful hunt with his friends, always invited the prettiest girls and the friendliest men to share his table at the tavern – and if jealousy made some people imply that he was less than a paragon of perfection?

He pitied them.

"It takes no real effort to be friendly," he told his friends at the tavern one evening, rolling his eyes at the stiff manners of a traveler who had declared himself uninterested in joining their party. "Why, if I were as rude as that man, I'd have no friends at all!"

Raucous laughter greeted this bit of wisdom, and a fresh round of drinks was ordered to celebrate his insight.

When his grandmother died, Gaston held his head high at the funeral. Her last words had been of him, naturally, how handsome and strong he was and how proud he had made her. Her only regret had been that he'd never brought her children of his own – and it was a regret that caused him to sit down and consider things thoughtfully.

It had never been a matter for concern, truly. His grandmother considered the village girls completely unsuitable, but he couldn't just _leave_ her alone to search for an appropriate wife. Now that she was gone, of course he couldn't ever bring her those great-grandchildren, but perhaps now _was_ a good time to be married.

He gave himself over to thought, still dressed in his suit from the funeral, sprawled across the bed in what had once been his father's room. He found his eyes drifting to the portrait at the foot of the bed and frowned.

He would just have to find the _right_ girl.


End file.
